The Blue Note Club
by CeliaEquus
Summary: To catch an assassin, Sherlock has been working as a nightclub dancer for some months. The night that Moran finally turns up is the night her friends happen to be there. And it's also when she finds out that John is married. Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock', nor am I making any money from this. Rated for themes and references. Fem!Sherlock.
1. The Setup

"The Setup"

The Blue Note Club wasn't due to open for another hour. Sherlock Holmes squirreled a metal nail file into her leather boot, the stiff material covering the fact that she had a concealed weapon hidden in her shoe. The boots went to a point just above the ankle, and they weren't too high. Sherlock had always towered over others. When she started out behind the bar, that was fine; customers simply assumed that she wore very high heels. Such shoes were, of course, utterly impractical, and she'd never worn such things if she could help it.

For this job, however, it was necessary that she wear 'foot bling' (a vulgar term, in her opinion). Because over the last few months, she had gone from barkeep to waitress to… performer. That was a polite description, to say the least, despite the club's reputation as more of a tease. Some people called it the Blue Balls Club for that reason.

"Sunny, it's for you!" Elizabeth called. Lizzy was one of Sherlock's fellow showgirls. They only knew her as Sunny Jean. Ironically, her show name was Starshine, and her clothing was black, with sequined stars stitched all over the more… shall we strategic areas?

"Sunny Jean here," Sherlock said, using her deeper, more sultry voice. "How may I help you?"

"I never wish to hear you addressing me in that manner again."

"Oh," she said, dropping the act. "It's you. What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Sebastian Moran is indeed in the area. I believe it is safe to say that he will make his half-yearly visit to the Blue Note tonight."

"And was that not the plan?" Sherlock said. When she noticed someone else look over, she immediately took to winding the phone cord around her finger, and smirked. "Are you coming to see me perform tonight?"

"I can think of far more pleasant past-times than watching you degrade yourself by performing—"

"Well, it isn't as though I strip _all_ the way."

"I shall be infinitely grateful once tonight is over."

"So will I," Sherlock said softly. She would finally be able to find out what had happened in her three-year absence. What would John call his blog entry when she came back? Would he refer to this time as her long vacation? Her great hiatus? She nearly snorted. It was Mycroft's annoying voice which brought her back to Earth.

"…must not do anything foolish, or Mummy will be most upset—"

"She would be upset at the mere thought of me working in a nightclub. I must go now, Mycroft," Sherlock said, interrupting the flow. "I need to finish getting dressed, putting on makeup, warming up—"

"Very well. But be _careful_, Sherlock."

"Oh, I'm _always_ careful," she said, smiling wickedly at the stage manager as he passed, and receiving a saucy wink in return. Thank God Sherlock could act, and suppress her gag reflex; else she'd have been sick several times over by now, with some of the looks alone. "Goodbye, Mycroft." Then she hung up, and returned to the dressing room.

'Lightning' Lizzy, 'Mona Lisa' Monica, and 'Peppy' Pauline were nearly made up, and 'Blondie' Bella was doing stretches which would make a contortionist stare. They had all been working at the Blue Note longer than Sherlock, but they were lovely women, and supported her all the way. Monica and Pauline had helped her work out a routine, Bella taught her the right moves to win over the customers, and Lizzy educated her in the noble art of lap dancing. None of these would help Sherlock once she returned to civilian life, and she was almost looking forward to deleting them. Almost… After all, it was a very good workout, and she was learning how to improvise certain dance moves mid-performance. Her vocal range had improved, and she was, in general, becoming quite a starlet in her own right.

Of course, it was her intention to become good enough to give private dances to paying customers. She never anticipated being on stage. But once they knew that she was musical, and once they finally uncovered her lithe body from beneath the less revealing clothes she preferred, they insisted on bringing her onto the stage. She worked behind them at first, as a chorus girl. A few weeks ago, she'd been given her own spot. No more bar work, and very little in the way of waitressing.

Now all she had to do was give her best damned performance, be at her most seductive, and win over Sebastian Moran. Once alone with him—

"Nearly time!" the SM called. The owner of the club, Miss 'Blues' McCray, came into the room to inspect them. The backing dancers had a different room, and the men another.

"Ready, girls?" Miss McCray asked. "Good. Sunny, don't forget your cape."

"No, Miss McCray," Sherlock said, and she swung the bespangled coat around her back. She tied it at the neck, made sure it was resting properly, and waited for further instructions. The chorus boys and girls performed first, to the latest Katy Perry song. They always made good use of the poles. Sherlock rarely did, though she worried that she would have to tonight. According to her sources (and Mycroft's), Moran visited the Blue Note Club once every six months. He had a table in the front row reserved for his visits. Sherlock had known he was coming because there was a sign on the tabletop for the first time since she had begun work.

Out on the stage, the first routine was ending, and there was a large round of applause. The hooting and foot-stamping wouldn't start until the first dance. It was Bella's turn to go first tonight. Sherlock was a bundle of nerves. She wasn't on until the fourth number. If Moran went for one of the other girls first…

Stop it, she told herself. Where is the Sherlock Holmes that John and Greg know? That Mrs. Hudson knows? Where did she go?

"Got a few groups tonight," Lizzy said quietly, while they waited where they could see the customers. Sherlock's eyes swept the assembly…

And then she froze.

* * *

"So when was the last time you were here?" Greg asked, and he smirked as he went to drink some more beer. John rolled his eyes.

"I told you, it was just the once," he said. "For my stag night."

"No other times?"

"Nope."

They were a large group. John, Greg, Donovan, Dimmock, Anderson, Gregson, some of the other Yarders, Molly Hooper, and even Mrs. Hudson had been convinced to join them. It was a celebration of freedom and of life.

"Sir, may you be happier divorced than you were married," Anderson said, tilting his drink towards Greg. The inspector rolled his eyes. He'd been sergeant for awhile there, and it took a long time for him to forgive Donovan and Anderson for their lack of faith once the truth came out, and Sherlock's name was cleared. That didn't make her death any less tragic. In fact, it made it even more so. But by then the damage had been done. Mrs. Lestrade had left, especially once he was diagnosed. Thank God they had found the tumour in time to fight it off with chemo and other radiation treatments. There was a strong possibility that Mycroft Holmes had fielded most of the medical expenses, and ensured that Greg's job would still be there when he returned.

Now, they were ostensibly celebrating the divorce finally coming through, after the last two and a half years. In reality, celebrating Greg's recovery. His hair was slowly growing back, a bit greyer than it was before. John was growing a moustache for Movember.

Of course, he thought, while the others chattered on, it wasn't just for Greg's cancer.

"You know what?" Donovan said, her eyes bright. "Let's pool our resources and buy a little dance for the DI."

"Wait, wait, wait," Greg said, eyes widening.

"What a good idea," Mrs. Hudson said, already pulling out her wallet. "I came prepared for this. I have some condoms; they should still be in date."

"Mrs. Hudson, this isn't a brothel," John said, patting her arm. "It's a nice thought, but…"

"But I've just gone through a divorce," Greg said, saving John from trying to think of something tactful to say. "I'd rather just hang out with you lot, all right? Can't think why, for the life of me."

"How's Mary?" Molly asked, leaning across to speak to John. His smile faded a little.

"She's fine," he said. "She forced me to come out tonight. Said that marriage wasn't supposed to be a prison. Neighbour's going to keep her company for a couple of hours, `til I get home."

* * *

Pain ripped through Sherlock. She should have let Mycroft keep her informed of her friends' goings on. Greg had clearly been getting over some illness, he was now divorced, and John… her John (not that he'd ever really been hers)… was married. To a woman named Mary. A safe name. Most likely a safe woman. And she wasn't restricting John in any way, so she didn't smother.

But John… he might have waited! He might have known Sherlock would be coming back! He might have known that she always loved him, always wanted him…

Max – one of the barkeepers – came over to where they were still watching the crowd. Sherlock tore her attention away from the conversation, cursing her ability to lip-read, but also grateful that she would have no nasty shocks.

"You're got steady hands, Sunny," Max said. "Could you help with drinks for a bit? When are you on?"

"Not for awhile," she said. "All right."

"Great," he said, and she followed him to the bar. "This lot to number ten, and these to number four."

Table four. John's table.

"Indeed," she said, and she lifted the first tray.

When it was time to take the second load of drinks, she paused as she touched the tray, and then stiffened her spine. She was a Holmes. Not just any Holmes, but _the_ Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Her contacts were poised to take out the rest of the top spiders in Moriarty's web at her word, which she would give just before she had to go on stage for her number. It would only take one call to Mycroft, and he would do the rest. Then she would take down Moran, and everything would be fine.

Except it wouldn't. Not now that John was married. But it was better than being dead… perhaps.

Approaching the table, Sherlock briefly wondered whether her makeup and outlandish clothing (and apparent suicide) would conceal her from her friends for just a little longer. It was too much to hope – she realised that right away – when John's eyes widened upon seeing her. She reached the rest of the table, surrounded by padded benches, and saw just how many other people she knew there. Good God, even Molly and Mrs. Hudson! If Mycroft had been there, too, that would have just topped off her whole evening in the most spectacular fashion.

"Drinks for table four," she said coquettishly, and she distributed them. The others at the Blue Note thought that she had some variety of psychic power which allowed her to work out who ordered which drink. As a courtesy, she checked, and was inordinately relieved when the last drink was on the table.

They all seemed speechless. Molly was blushing, no doubt worried that Sherlock would give away that she had known all the time. Sherlock powered along.

"My name is Sunny," she said, never faltering in her delivery. "And whose birthday is it tonight?"

Greg cleared his throat. "It's, uh, not a birthday party. Just celebrating my, uh, my divorce."

"Oh dear," Sherlock said, fluttering her eyelashes. She trailed a painted nail along his neck and behind his ear. He simply stared at her. "Would you like someone to make it all better for you?" She allowed her gaze to drop down his chest, before raising it again with an impish smile. "I'd be ever so happy to oblige, sir." His mouth opened and closed like a fish. It was almost endearing. "What's your name, precious?"

"G-Gregory. Uh, Greg."

"How sweet." She bent over closer to him, and lowered her eyelids to half-mast. "Well, Gregory. If you want me, just ask for Starshine." She moved her lips close to his ear, though her voice was audible enough for the others to hear. "Sometimes they call me Supernova. If you want to find out why…" She dragged her teeth along the shell of his ear. "Just ask for me."

With a flirtatious little smile to the others in general – internally shuddering in disgust when she made eye contact with some of them – she sashayed off, tray in hand and longing for the night to be over.

After this, she may just have to kill Mycroft.

* * *

**Technically, Sherlock's little interaction with the others was supposed to take place in chapter two, but I don't want the chapters to be too different in length.**

**As for Sherlock's song, there's the tiniest of obscure hints in her conversation with Mycroft, and only if you're familiar with musical theatre. And especially with songs in stage productions, but cut from the movie versions.**

**So! Fem!Sherlock and strip club. (I love the ambiguity of the name Sherlock. And what do you think of the stripper names?) The reason why Sherlock is female in this is because a female nightclub performer is more vulnerable than a male nightclub performer, or at least that's the perception. And female innocence, genuine or fake, is more believable and appealing to the Blue Note Club's audience. Or something.**


	2. The Seduction

"The Seduction"

The horror of that encounter over with, Sherlock retreated backstage after serving a few more drinks, and mentally prepared herself for her number. Monica was about to start her signature routine, to the music of 'Mona Lisa Smile'. She was usually asked for at least one encore. Sherlock placed a quick call to Mycroft, and told him to alert the others in three minutes' time.

When Sherlock realised that her acquaintances had moved towards the front, a few tables over from Moran – oh God, that's right, Moran was here – she had a sudden inspiration, and darted back to the dressing room, cape flowing behind her, boots clicking on the floor, and bracelets shifting on her wrists. She found paper and pencil, and scribbled down a note. She folded it, stuffed it down her bra, and returned to backstage.

While waiting for the encore to finish, Sherlock studied Moran. He had a handlebar moustache, greying blond hair, and sat tall and proud. His fingers were tapping a rhythm, and his expression was like that of an indifferent vulture, waiting for the right prey to focus on. Hopefully he would be less intimidating while she teased him into a false sense of security.

The applause started to die down, and Sherlock nodded to her two back-up dancers. The emcee called for quiet.

"And now for the latest constellation in our galaxy," he said. "It's Sunny 'Starshine' Jean!"

French for John; what was I thinking? she wondered. But she plastered on her show smile as she, Tess, and Jeanette moved into position, and waited for the band to start playing. The music began, and Sherlock moved slowly as she looked up, and then smiled. The girls had told her that her 'right posh voice' was perfect for this song.

"Mama," she said, "thinks I'm living in a convent, a secluded little convent in the southern part of France." Leaning forwards against the pole, she pushed her cape back, and traced her fingers down her sides to raise her skirt. "Mama doesn't even have an inkling that I'm working in a nightclub in a pair of lacy pants." She snapped the right side of her knickers, and it echoed around the room.

Then the skirt fell back into place as she began to sing.

"So please, sir, if you run into my mama, don't reveal my indiscretion," she tilted her head, and pouted. "Give a working girl… a chance."

Then the tempo picked up, and the back-up girls sprang into action while Sherlock grabbed the pole again, and swung her hips to one side with the rhythm.

"Hush up, don't tell Mama." To the other side. "Shush up, don't tell Mama. Don't tell Mama whatever you do." She stalked around to the front of the pole. "If you had a secret, you bet I would keep it." She thrust her hand out, and shook her finger to the rhythm. "I would never tell on you." She sighed, and ran her back up and down the pole slowly. "I'm breaking every promise that I gave her." She snapped back to attention. "So won't you kindly do a girl a great big favour?"

Then she dropped to her knees at the front of the stage, and made sure to look straight into Moran's eyes as she pressed her hands together. "And please, my sweet pa-ta-ter, keep this from the mater, though my dance is not against the law." She leapt to her feet. "You can tell my Papa, that's all right, `cause he comes in here every night." She twirled sharply around the pole. "But don't tell Mama what you saw."

There was a dance break then, improvised by the band, and Sherlock took to the pole, perfectly in sync with the other girls as they picked up on her dance cues. Swapping places with Jeannette, Sherlock greeted some of the regulars, playing up to them and taking their tips. Then she moved to the other side, and they returned to the same beat as the start of the song.

"Mama thinks I'm on a tour of Europe," she recited, "with a couple of my school chums and a lady chaperone." She dropped to a sitting position on the edge of the stage, right in front of her friends' table, and swung her legs. "Mama doesn't even have an inkling," she leaned forward, as though divulging a secret, "that I left them all in Antwerp," she giggled, "and I'm touring on my own."

Then she swung her legs back up on the stage, stood in one smooth movement, and backed up to the pole to sing.

"So please, sir," she winked at Greg, "if you run into my mama don't reveal my indiscretion." She flung her head back and hooked one ankle around the back of the pole. Her voice dropped. "Just leave well enough… alone."

Then Sherlock stalked back to centre stage, back to the audience, and gave the tiniest of nods to the band, before mounting the pole and swinging around.

"Hush up!"

"Don't tell Mama," Tess and Jeannette sang.

"Shush up!"

"Don't tell Mama."

"Don't tell Mama, whatever you do," she sang with them, slowly sliding down the pole while maintaining the same position. "If you—"

"Had a secret."

"You bet—"

"I would keep it."

Sherlock spun back the other way, catching Moran's eye again. "I would never tell on you. You wouldn't want to get me in a…" She flicked her gaze down, and then back up. "Pickle. And have her go and cut me off without a nickel." She reached up, and effortlessly pulled herself further up the pole, and held on tightly with her legs. "So let's," she ground against the pole, "trust one another, keep this from my mother." She widened her eyes innocently. "Though I'm still as pure as winter snow."

"You can tell her uncle here and now," the girls sang, and Sherlock smirked.

"`Cause he's my agent anyhow," she said.

"But don't tell Mama what you know," all three sang. Then Sherlock flipped backwards, still clutching the pole between her legs, and she spun around to the front. She untied her cape, and held it in one hand as she spiralled down the pole, letting it fly out behind her.

There was another dance break, and the girls repeated the chorus while Sherlock slid off the stage, starting with her friends' side. She especially made up to the inspector, dropping the note into his lap while she ran her hands down his front, and she tied her cape around his neck. (She laughed softly when Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Dimmock all gave her tips. Greg simply blushed.) Then she wandered around the back of Moran's chair, running her fingers along his upper back and feeling slightly violated when he looked her up and down, as though he was undressing her with his eyes. Greeting more of the regulars, Sherlock made her way back on stage, and leapt up to the middle of the centre pole.

"You can tell my grandma, suits me fine, just yesterday she joined the line," she sang, and there was some laughter from the audience when she grinned cheekily.

"But don't tell Mama what you know," the other girls sang as they jumped onto the other poles and mirrored Sherlock's pose.

"You can tell my brother, that ain't grim, `cause if he squeals on me I'll squeal on him!"

(For a moment, Sherlock wished that Mycroft _was_ there, just for that line.)

"But don't tell Mama, bitte," all three sang, swinging round the poles. "Don't tell Mama, please, sir. Don't tell Mama what you know."

Tess and Jeannette stayed where they were, hugging the poles, while Sherlock leapt to the floor and in one fluid motion was on her knees again, right at the front of the stage, lit only by a spotlight now. She had discreetly removed her hair tie, and black tresses now fell around her face.

"Shh, shh!" the girls whispered.

"If you see my mummy," Sherlock said, and she placed a finger in front of her lips, "mum's the word."

Then the spotlight went out, and Sherlock returned to her place in front of the pole. The lights came up, and she and the girls acknowledged the applause before retreating backstage, breathing heavily. Sherlock returned to the dressing room. She still didn't have enough confidence to remove anything more than she already did. And it would all be over by the end of the night, one way or another. She stuffed her tips into her bag, and then tied her hair back again. Miss McCray had organised it so that she had silver highlights to match her costume. Once this was over, maybe she wouldn't change it straight away?

"Good show, Sunny," Monica said, and she patted Sherlock's backside. It was just something she did, and Sherlock was used to it by now. "Gonna get your cape back soon?"

"I don't know what made me do it," Sherlock said, and she moaned as she covered her face. "He's here because he's newly divorced, and he's been ill, so he obviously needs a good night out."

"You just felt like being a bit of a tease," Monica said, and she grinned. "He's definitely a silver fox, and you have the hair to match. I say, go and tap that. Get his number."

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "I'll see if Max needs some hel—"

"Starshine, someone wants a private showing," Miss McCray said, interrupting their conversation. "He's a regular. You would've seen him down the front. His name is Mr. Moran. Take him to room number two."

Sherlock could feel her pulse rising. She quickly changed necklaces, took her hair down and pushed it back with a headband instead, and left the room. She found Moran near the bar, and half-smiled. That always drew their attention to her lips.

"Mr. Moran, do come this way," she said, and she took the risk of turning her back on him as she led him to the second room on the left of the passage. She allowed her finger to trail down the wood before reaching the knob, and twisted until there was a click. She made eye contact with Moran as she pushed the door open, and he followed her inside. There was a chair in the middle of the room, and she gestured to it. "Please take a seat."

When he didn't sit down right away, Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but closed the door nonetheless. She took in his whole appearance, checking for any 'interest' on his part, and also for concealed weapons. The length of her nail file pressed against her stocking-clad skin.

"Very nice dancing out there," Moran said, his voice like gravel. "But I must admit that I had already chosen you for the night."

"What, the _whole_ night?" Sherlock said. She took his hands and led him towards the chair. "That can get awfully expensive, Mr. Moran. Are you sure you wouldn't rather make sure that I'm worth it first?" Then she shoved him into the chair and mounted his lap. His smirk was twisted, and she shivered unpleasantly. "The rules are that you keep your hands to yourself unless I say otherwise… and enjoy yourself."

"I know I will enjoy killing you, Miss Holmes."

Sherlock had precisely a quarter of a second to register his words before he had forced her off the chair and onto the floor, one hand on her waist and the other going for her throat. She bucked him off and grabbed the file from her boot. He rolled Sherlock onto her back again, and this time got a hold on her neck. She struck out with her weapon and managed to sink it into his arm. When he let go with a bellow, she shouted for help. There was always someone nearby in case a customer 'got fresh'. Then, using the muscles she'd never known she had until she started dancing, Sherlock tripped him up when he tried to get away, rolled him onto his front, and bent his right arm back behind him until it dislocated with a loud pop. The door burst open, and one of the male dancers held down Moran while Sherlock ran to the door. She bumped into Lestrade, already waiting. Clearly, he'd read her note.

"I don't suppose you have handcuffs," he said, making his way to Moran.

"There are some in the cupboard," the dancer – Damian – told Sherlock. She nodded; she knew precisely where they were, and fetched a pair while Lestrade read Moran his rights. Then he cuffed the criminal, and led him out. Sherlock rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. That was when someone placed her cape around her shoulders. She turned, recognising the scent immediately.

"Good evening, John," she said quietly. Miss McCray started gesturing from the doorway, and Sherlock nodded. "I believe that it is customary to offer congratulations on a friend's nuptials. I only w-wish that I, uh," she cleared her throat, "could have been here for the wedding. If you'll excuse me." She turned her head. "Thank you, Damian."

"Anytime, Sunny."

She gave him a small smile, studied John's face for two seconds, and then walked up to Miss McCray.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss McCray."

"Good. Lucky for us there were police here tonight."

"There is usually at least one member of the force here of a night."

"Including you?"

Sherlock exhaled. "Not quite. I'm more of a consultant."

"Undercover?"

"Not for them. For myself. Sebastian Moran is an assassin, and he took over from James Moriarty."

Miss McCray was quiet for some time. Then she nodded shortly.

"He's the one who was calling himself Richard Brook."

"And I am Sherlock Holmes."

There were a few of the dancers, male and female, around now. Sherlock noticed several jaws drop. Miss McCray seemed as unfazed as usual.

"You look well for a dead woman."

"Had Moran succeeded tonight, I would have at least died in style." She indicated her outfit with a slight smirk. Miss McCray chuckled.

"Don't let it happen again," she said.

"We really should get going," John said, and he touched Sherlock's back. She leapt away from him, still on edge.

"I still have a few hours left to work," she said. "Quite frankly, anything to avoid having to give a statement. And Mycroft refuses to come here. So I'm… I'm staying." She glanced at Miss McCray. "If that is permissible?"

"Of course it is," Miss McCray said, and she steered Sherlock out of the room. "Keep working here as long as you like. We'll have to tweak your employment records now—"

"Not until my brother brings me back to life."

"Well, until— can I help you?" she asked, looking at John. He was trailing behind him. "Staff only beyond this point. You can go now. Thank you."

John looked from Miss McCray to Sherlock. She nodded, and he left without a word. Miss McCray raised an eyebrow.

"My old flatmate," Sherlock said.

"Ah. Boyfriend?"

"No. He…" She flinched. "He's married."

Miss McCray nodded, and sent Sherlock back to the dressing room to fix herself up. Some of the chorus girls immediately began chattering to her quietly, asking rapid fire questions. She answered a few, and was grateful when she was finally able to be by herself.

"Over," she said, and she sank to the floor. "Finally. Over."

* * *

**It's hard to write Post-Reichenbach, fake stripper Sherlock. And it's hard to write dancing when I have no knowledge of pole-dancing outside of fan fiction, any dancing outside of children's theatre, and when I'm trying to describe actions during a fast-paced song. It's a very good song, though, is 'Don't Tell Mama'. It's from 'Cabaret', but it wasn't in the movie. They replaced it with 'Mein Herr'.**

**So. Moran is now out of the way, and Sherlock has to come back to reality now, and face… well, everything and everyone.**

**Trivia: Tess and Jeannette are named after Tessa and Gianetta in 'The Gondoliers', by Gilbert and Sullivan.**


	3. The Shining Star

"The Shining Star"

Sherlock slid into the car, and was surprised to find Mycroft sitting there, instead of Anthea.

"So you did catch some of my performance," she said, and she smirked. "What did you think?"

"I merely entered the building to observe Moran's reaction once I had sent the requisite communication to our contacts. There was nothing discernible. Nevertheless, I had all messages to his phone blocked. No precipitate action took place. It appears that he had already anticipated that you would seek him out when he was supposedly vulnerable. I," Mycroft cleared his throat, "left upon the commencement of your… performance."

Sherlock smirked as she looked out the window. 221B Baker Street had been rented by various people while she was away; Mycroft's people, to be precise. Now they could leave, and she could go home. Of course, she would need to find another flatmate. Was Molly looking for a new place? Not last that Sherlock had heard. She had kept minimal contact with the pathologist, for both their sakes.

"It's all over," Sherlock repeated to herself, sinking back into the cool leather seats. "Did you come back for me, or did you stay?"

"I decided that it would be more discreet to leave, should the police arrive. No sense in causing further trouble."

"Of course."

"Truly, Sherlock." Mycroft hesitated, and then took her hand. She froze. "You have missed a great deal."

She nodded, and looked away again, no longer noticing her surroundings. "I am aware of that." She inhaled shakily. "Why didn't you tell me that John married?"

"You said not to give you any news—"

"I didn't mean that! Something as big as marriage or death… Oh God. Has anyone died?"

"No, Sherlock."

"Lestrade's divorce was not wholly unexpected. But John… marrying…" Sherlock swallowed the lump forming in her throat. "Is she a good woman?"

"Wonderful. I haven't met her – officially; no sense in upsetting Dr. Watson, you understand – but she has done him the world of good."

"Good," Sherlock said, although her voice cracked. She tried to ignore the sick feeling inside. "As long as he is happy."

"He isn't truly happy, Sherlock."

"If it was a matter of grieving over me, that can now cease, and he can be happy again. Happy, with his loving wife. Happy, with a family as well, no doubt. He would be a wonderful father, something I could never… never provide."

Mycroft was silent for awhile. When he opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock shook her head, and whispered, 'Don't.' He changed the subject.

"You left your costume behind," he said.

"Yes, well, it was made for me, and I am hardly going to wear it around London."

"…We can arrange for your hair to be restored to normal, or you could allow the dye to run out. Which would you prefer?"

Sherlock gave him a strange look. "Why would I do that?"

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "It is hardly fitting for a…"

"You nearly said 'proper young lady', didn't you, brother?"

"It stands out, Sherlock."

"I have always stood out, Mycroft. People call me a freak." She played with the ends of her hair, admiring the silver strands. "This may or may not add to it. Either I now look even more the part – by certain standards – or I look… cooler." A small smile played on her lips, and she glanced at her brother. "It is my body, Mycroft. And if I'm to keep working at the Blue Note part-time, it is logical to maintain my look—"

"If you are to _what_?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It is either that, or shooting holes in the walls. Obviously I cannot perform while I am on a case. But I am stronger, and I find myself very nearly entertained. I can read people's stories, change my dance every night, and I already require little sleep or nourishment. It is far less boring than being left alone with only my thoughts. And now that John… Well." She laughed softly. "And apparently I have acquired a 'fan club'. They would be incredibly disappointed if I stopped performing altogether."

"And the… private dances?" Mycroft's eyes flashed with anger, and Sherlock pulled her hand away from his.

"You're playing the protective older brother now?" she said. "I am not a prostitute, Mycroft. Besides." She thought over her paid encounters. "You don't understand how much power you hold in such a position. I control the situation entirely – assassins aside – and I've discovered that I enjoy teasing very much." Mycroft's jaw was still tight, and Sherlock patted his hand. "Don't worry, brother. I am still untouched in every other way."

"Good," Mycroft said, but his voice was tight.

"Men like innocence," Sherlock said, absently twirling her hair again. "And they appear to enjoy it when the innocence disappears, even just for a moment. Or so I've found."

"I do not wish to hear this, Sherlock."

"Very well."

They had just arrived at Sherlock's current residence, when she leaned towards Mycroft.

"I'm sure I could make anyone in the Diogenes talk," she whispered. "Even if it's just to scream my name. Let me know if anyone's interested. This is quite good money, you know."

Mycroft looked torn between shock, horror, and the urge to throw up. Sherlock's lips twisted into a saucy grin as she strutted up to the door. By the time she turned to wave, the car was speeding off into the distance.

* * *

John returned home to find Mary already in bed, the television on and doing the crossword in the newspaper. Her medications were on the bedside table. John barely noticed them anymore. Administering them was simply routine by now.

"Hey," he said softly, distractedly. Mary tilted her head.

"How was it, dear?" she asked. John paused as he removed his jacket. Then he quickly pulled it off.

"It was… interesting. Remarkable." He laughed. "Quite remarkable."

"Oh, really?"

He nodded, and continued to don his pyjamas in silence. When he turned around, the puzzle book was gone, and Mary was holding the remote. She indicated the set, and he nodded. She switched it off. Now there was only the bed lamps to light the room. She looked even paler than usual.

"What happened?" she asked. "Is Gregory all right?"

John laughed again. "He almost got a lap dance from one of the… showgirls."

"Is that so? How does someone _almost_ get a lap dance?"

"Well, he ended up having to make an arrest after that particular showgirl was nearly killed by Sebastian Moran."

Mary's jaw dropped. John slipped into bed.

"Was she hurt badly?"

"No," John said. "No, Sherlock wasn't hurt at all. Not bad for a dead woman."

"Sherlock… Oh. I see." Mary smiled wearily. "Well, I'm glad she's alive. You must be pleased about that, John."

"I don't know how to feel. I don't think it's really sunk in yet."

"It will, soon enough."

"Hmm." He turned his head, and noticed how she was starting to flag. "Get some sleep. Hey. Mary?"

"Yes, John?"

"…You know that this doesn't change anything between us, don't you? I married _you_. I love _you_."

"You loved her," Mary said. "And you always will." John sighed, and he rested his head on her shoulder. "I'm getting weaker every day; you know that. You've been wonderful, John. You really have. And our time is nearly up."

"Don't say that. You could still do this."

She huffed a gentle laugh. "I've been living on borrowed time since long before we met. They gave me five months; it's been two and a half years. I may have gotten through this had the tumour been found in time. But it wasn't, and I won't. John… if you want to leave before I go—"

"_No_," John said, and he cupped her face in his hands. "I promised `til death do us part, and I won't go back on my word. I love you, Mary, and I will until the end of my life."

"I truly am glad that she is back, John. You will need support. It was selfish of me to want to marry you in the first place; you were still grieving as though you really had been widowed, and I'll be condemning you to the same thing all over again." She let John kiss her, and sighed as she tasted the salty tears. "I promise that I won't leave until I know you will be happy. And I've heard so much about Sherlock Holmes that I want to meet her before I die."

John stroked her cheeks, tracing her jaw-line with his thumbs. "I love you, Mary."

"And I love you, John. Try to get some sleep now, and perhaps we could meet her tomorrow."

* * *

The next day, Sherlock reluctantly trudged along to Scotland Yard, coat buttoned all the way up, scarf tight around her neck (a few bruises from Moran's rough treatment had formed overnight), holding her head high. She had no doubt that people at the Yard would already know about her new job. If there was any trouble, though, she found herself oddly anticipating the thought of giving a brief demonstration. If it brought the club more business, Miss McCray would be more than happy. And Sherlock owed her a hell of a lot. Safety, a job, even friendship. Not to mention a hairstyle which had really grown on her.

"Let the sunshine in," Anderson sang under his breath as Sherlock passed. She rolled her eyes, still walking.

"My stage name is Starshine, you imbecile!" she called back. Noticing that several people – predominantly men – were looking, she flicked her hair back over her shoulder, never breaking her stride, and searched for Lestrade.

"He's over here," Donovan said, finally catching Sherlock poking around various rooms.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. She eyed Donovan as the woman led her through New Scotland Yard. "What, no 'freak'? Going to use my other name now?"

Donovan snorted. "Hardly. I'm still on the fence about you." She gave Sherlock a sideways glance. "Do they really call you Supernova sometimes?" Sherlock smirked, and nodded. "Do I want to know why?"

"I am sure that even your imagination is not so limited."

Before Donovan could retort, they ran into Lestrade. The tips of his ears turned a horrendous shade of pink, and he had trouble looking Sherlock in the eye. She took pity on him, and perched on the desk closest to him.

"Gregory," she said, swinging her legs the way she had the night before. He stared at them for a moment, then met her eyes, and looked away again. She suppressed a groan of annoyance. That would be unlikely to help at the moment. "I presume that I must make a statement regarding the events of yester evening?"

"You?" he said, finally – finally! – staring at her. "You, Sherlock Holmes? Willingly making a statement? What the hell did that fall do to your head? And… and last night. What was that all about?"

"I can explain the latter in my statement, Lestrade. Now, are you going to take down my… particulars? Or shall I… Ugh!" She leapt off the desk. "I shall be glad when I am engaged in other work once more. This is becoming too natural. I must separate myself from Sunny." She huffed, and then smiled at Lestrade. "I am ready when you are."

* * *

John took the day off from work. Overnight, Sherlock's return had been leaked, along with the capture of Sebastian Moran. So John's boss was very understanding when he said that his presumed-dead former flatmate was, in fact, alive, and that Mary wanted to meet her. John was still reeling from it, and would have been of no use.

Mycroft contacted them over breakfast, and agreed to a meeting. So when his car drew up outside around lunchtime, and deposited Sherlock virtually on their front doorstep, John and Mary were prepared.

"We… we didn't get a chance to talk last night, did we?" John said, scratching the back of his head. He tried to distract himself by studying Sherlock's hair.

"No, we didn't," she said. Her voice was so achingly familiar, away from the smoky tones of her nightclub persona. John cleared his throat, and stepped back.

"Come in," he said.

"It is not necessary—"

"Yes, it is. You've been left here, and I've made lunch. Now come on in. Mary wants to meet you."

It almost looked like Sherlock flinched. She ducked her head, and brushed past him on the way into the small house.

"This way," John continued, and he led Sherlock to the dining room, where Mary was already seated, wearing her best wig, boxes and bottles of tablets beside her plate, and her IV drip nearby. Sherlock's reaction was fairly strong, at least for a Holmes; her lips parted as her mind made rapid deductions, and she sank into the seat John pulled out for her, still staring at Mary.

"I see," she said. "You are still receiving treatment, Miss Morstan."

"Yes."

"Did Mycroft tell you her maiden name?" John asked. Sherlock snapped out of it, and gave him a withering look.

"You know my methods, John," she said. "I would tell you to apply them, but you have the advantage of prior knowledge, and so observation would be a waste of time."

"I don't know about that," John said, sitting down opposite. "You've been to the Yard."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Did Lestrade call you?"

"You know your methods, Sherlock. I'd tell you to apply them, but you have… what was it you said? The advantage of prior knowledge? So observation would be… oh yes. A waste of time."

Sherlock seemed stunned. John was ashamed to admit that, when Mary chuckled, he realised that he'd forgotten that she was in the room. He took her hand quickly and squeezed it, even though he could tell that she had noticed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock's head bow, just the tiniest bit, and reminded himself that she was their guest.

"Food?" he said. "I know you eat less than a bird, so there isn't much. But I can make more."

"I don't eat much, either," Mary said, leaning towards Sherlock. "I don't have the energy anymore. Not that I ate a great deal before, either." She patted Sherlock's hand, then began to serve herself some of the garden salad. "John told me that you work in a nightclub. Is it interesting?"

"Y-yes, very," Sherlock said, still obviously wrong-footed. "More than I had believed it would be. I have been most fortunate. Within a few days, Moriarty's network will be no more. We— I can move back into Baker Street, and everything will be as it— well, nearly as it should… _used_ to be." She shook her head. "I apologise, Mrs. Watson." She looked from Mary to John, and then back again. "I never anticipated… any of this."

"You haven't yet deduced how we met?" Mary asked. She put some cold meat and salad onto Sherlock's plate. "Eat, Miss Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

"Then you must call me Mary."

"Very well then, Mary. I… I will not go into great detail, because I do not wish to distress or overwhelm you. Or John, for that matter. But judging by what I have seen today, and what I saw last night, it appears that you met John when he took Lestrade along to his radiotherapy appointments. His hair is growing back, and your wedding ring is at least eighteenth months old, likely nearer to twenty. So this was not long after my… fabricated death." John looked down, and tried not to twist the tablecloth too hard. "As he was temporarily back in uniform, he must have had to undergo a full medical examination. This appears to have saved his life, as any problems would have required closer study, and would have led to locating a tumour. They found it in time, judging by his improved health. You and John fell in love, decided that life was too short, and married as soon as possible. Through his own sense of guilt, I am sure that my brother is providing some money towards medical costs, certainly for Lestrade. Perhaps not so for you, Miss… Mrs. Watson. You come from a wealthy family, although there has been a fall in your fortunes in the last five years. Was that due to the high medical costs, or something else? Perhaps the fault of your father?"

"Sherlock, that's enough!" John shouted. Mary was staring at Sherlock, mouth closed, fork hovering over her plate.

"John didn't do you any credit," Mary said. "That was… that was amazing, Sherlock. It truly was. But you did miss something."

"There is _always_ something," Sherlock said. She frowned at John. "Sit down, John. You look like an idiot, looming over us like that."

"Do as she says, John," Mary said, flicking at him lightly with a napkin. "I do care for him, Sherlock. Deeply. He's a wonderful friend, as I'm sure you are aware. He asked me out, even knowing that I was sick; not that he knew how advanced the cancer was at the time. We did agree that life was short. My mother… she was a patient in the same hospital where we met. She only ever wanted to see me married. Both of my parents were old-fashioned. My father had stipulated in his will that everything went to my mother, but that none of it could pass to me while I remained unmarried. He died before it could be changed, and she had no will. John took me to visit her one day, while Greg was having his treatment. I was in a wheelchair. Mother approved of John immediately. He offered to marry me, not only to fulfil her dream, but also to ensure that the money would pass to me. I am an only child, as I'm sure you… observed. Somehow." She took a bite of her salad, still gazing at Sherlock, and swallowed. "Truly wondrous."

"Mary, I can finish the story if you want," John said, and he stroked her arm. She shook her head.

"I can do it. Eat, John." He sighed, and obeyed. "Now, where was I?"

"You are an only child," Sherlock said.

"That's right. Thank you. The money leftover was enough to cover mother's medical expenses, and to cover mine. I was a teacher, and I have been putting aside as much as I could for years."

"I thought as much."

Mary smiled weakly. "Yes. There won't be much left, but it will tide John over for awhile. I hope you will be there for him after I'm gone, Sherlock."

"You have to think positively," John said. "If you don't—"

"Let's not argue about this now," Mary said. "I want to hear all about what you've been doing, Sherlock, and I know John is dying to hear about it as well."

John could tell that Sherlock was still floundering a bit. But, with Mary's help, she managed to open up, and proceeded to fill them in on the last three years.

* * *

**More than halfway through now! I'm glad I didn't do this as a one-shot, because it would have been hellishly long.**

**A note:**

**Originally, I was torn between John being engaged, married, or single. I was going to go with single, and Sherlock getting the wrong end of the stick when someone jokes about his stag night. But then, not too long back, I came up with a head canon based on the trailer, where Lestrade was diagnosed with cancer, had chemo, got better, and his hair was growing back by the time of the trailer. Additionally, John was growing a moustache for Movember.**

**And so I ended up combining the two, with John meeting Mary, who also had cancer, and then marrying her. After all, in the books she dies while Sherlock is gone; so I figured that I may as well do this. Anyway, while discussing this with donnabella2k7, she made a suggestion which, I'm sorry to say, didn't fit in with what I had worked out. So she's writing it as an alternative storyline, or an 'inspired by' fic.**


	4. The Service

**Warning: character death mentioned, plus much angst. And more singing and dancing.**

"The Service"

Mary Morstan was one of the most acceptable women whom Sherlock had ever met, and the best wife for John. Better than anyone else could have been.

And now she felt guilty for ever hating the woman who took the man Sherlock loved. It was before she had met Mary. They had become friends – as much as ever a person could be friends with Sherlock – and through Mary's influence Sherlock and John made up… somewhat. John was still mistrustful, and kept his distance. It had taken several months for him to warm to Sherlock once more.

Her return brought with it some annoyances, yes: Mrs. Hudson hated it every time Sherlock left, and plied her with numerous homemade meals and desserts; Lestrade kept closer to Sherlock during crime scenes, and was proving an adequate substitute for John; and John… well, he seemed to be the only one not wholly joyful over her return. It was lonely at Baker Street. So lonely that Sherlock was considering taking on a new flatmate.

"Are you working on a new number?" Lizzy asked. Sherlock stopped applying silver mascara for long enough to stare at her colleague.

"What do you mean?" she said.

"Well, you've got your thinking face on. You said you can't be here when you're on a case, so it's not that, is it?" Sherlock shook her head slowly. "Then what's got you all broody?"

"I am not… _broody_. I am merely contemplating something." She finished using the mascara, and reached for the black eye pencil. She swung around on the stool, facing away from the mirror. "It is nothing to do with my work here."

"Hey, are we still calling you Sunny?"

"Call me what you like," Sherlock said, and she stood up. "Perhaps— ah, thank you, Bridget."

"No probs," Bridget said, nudging Sherlock back onto her seat. "Give it here then."

Sherlock handed her the pencil, and kept still as Bridget drew a shooting star on her cheek, near the corner of her left eye. She was the most artistic of the dancers; she drew the illustrations for any signs in and outside the club, and for their ads. A few flicks of the pencil later, and Sherlock looked approvingly at her reflection in the mirror.

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Welcome, love," Bridget said, cheerful as ever, and she shimmied out of the room while Sherlock replaced the pencil in her makeup case.

"D'you want to talk about it?" Pauline said. Sherlock pulled her shoulders back, and stood gracefully.

"A friend died a few days ago," she said. "Her funeral is tomorrow."

"What? But you were here last night, and the night before," Bella said, and she touched Sherlock's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

"Because it is a sore subject for me. I would appreciate it if we no longer discussed it."

"Right you are," Monica said. Bella smiled sadly, patted Sherlock on the back, and left to go backstage. Miss McCray chose that moment to show up at the door.

"Your friends are here, Sunny," she said. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up.

"My friends?" she inquired.

"Yes. Girl with long brown hair, older woman with short hair, blond bloke, a tall one with a brolly, and that silver fox."

They were here. Sherlock's friends. And John. Did he still count as a friend, eight months after her return?

Oh good God. Umbrella. Mycroft was here as well?

"Thank you," Sherlock said, trying not to let this distract her. Miss McCray's eyes narrowed.

"You all right to go on?" she asked. "You're after Blondie."

"I am aware of that. Thank you, Miss McCray. I will be fine." Miss McCray was about to leave, when Sherlock continued. "I… _have_ put some thought into a new dance. I must confess, it was partly planned with a friend. My… my late friend. Using the song from her favourite James Bond film. I have told the band, and Damian and Bradley are my backup dancers. Will it be acceptable to premiere it tonight?"

"If you feel up to it."

"I do. I believe that this is the one night where it should be… given life."

Miss McCray smiled. "Then go for it, Starshine."

Sherlock swallowed, and went to open her jewellery case.

* * *

The curtains opened on the second act. There was silence. Then the click of boots across the stage as Starshine – Sherlock – walked up to the front, stopping at the centre pole.

Sherlock reached out a hand, slowly, so slowly. Golden bracelets shimmered in the spotlight. Her cape rustled with the movement. She was wearing more than she had eight months ago. That night would forever be burned in John's memory; every moment like a movie still. This costume's skirt stopped just above Sherlock's knees, and she was wearing a scarf which tucked into the bodice. Flushing with shame and guilt, John forced himself to watch Sherlock's face instead. His thoughts only took seconds, which ended when she grasped the pole.

The moment she did, the band began to play. A saxophone struck up a few notes, and John immediately recognised the song. His hands began to tremble, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Sherlock swayed from one side to the other, in time with the saxophone, her eyes closed and head tilted back. Then she looked directly at the audience and sang.

"Goldfinger." Her lips curled. "He's the man, the man with the Midas touch." Her voice dropped to a hiss. "A spider's touch." She draped herself on the pole. "Such a cold finger," she stroked up and down the front of the pole, from her breasts to the top of the skirt, "beckons you to enter his web of sin." She snapped straight up, and the band paused. "But don't go in."

Then they joined in again, and Sherlock began to dance, really dance, as she sang, her body almost blending with the metal.

"Golden words he will pour in your ear," she sang, and she paused to look at the audience again. "But his lies can't disguise what you fear." She removed her cape. "For a golden girl knows when he's kissed her," at 'kissed', she tossed the cape into the audience, "it's the kiss of _death_ from Mister Goldfinger." She returned to violating the metal pole. "Pretty girl, beware of his heart of gold; this heart is cold."

Then she and two male performers danced while the band improvised on the tune. John's fists were clenched where they rested on his lap. The skirt was the next thing to go, and there were even louder cheers as she began to draw off the scarf gradually. As it left the confines of her bodice while she was lifted between the two men, a few coarse suggestions were made, nearly sending John out of his seat. Sherlock merely laughed.

"You have to pay for _that_ privilege," she called back. There was more laughter. She was lowered back to the stage, and she leapt to the top of the pole amid more cheers. As she twirled around, getting lower, she let the scarf trail behind. Just before she reached the bottom, she threw it to their table at the front. John caught it by reflex. He clutched it as Sherlock returned to singing, no longer at the pole, but coming down among the audience.

"Golden words he will pour in your ear, but his lies can't disguise what you fear. For a golden girl knows when he's kissed her, it's the kiss of death from Mister Goldfinger," she tickled a couple of customers behind the ears. "Pretty girl, beware of his heart of gold," she touched the heart-shaped locket at her throat, and John stopped breathing. He knew that necklace. "This heart is cold." She walked back onto the stage as she continued. "He loves only gold." She made for the central pole again. "Only gold." She curled one leg around it. "He loves gold." She made fleeting eye contact with John, then half-smirked at the rest of the audience. "He loves gold."

And on the high note, she spun around to face the back of the stage, and the lights went down.

* * *

Wandering out to the bar five minutes later, desperate for a drink after receiving so many congratulations on a good performance (and still waiting for her nerves to settle), Sherlock ran into John. It turned out not to be an accident at all, as he backed her into a dark spot.

"What the hell was that about, Sherlock?" he said, nearly snarling the words. She swallowed.

"Returning my scarf?" she said.

"To hell with your scarf. How _dare_ you take one of Mary's favourite songs, and do… do _that_ to it."

Sherlock reeled back a step, feeling as though she'd been slapped. "She—"

"She would never do that sort of thing," John said, gripping Sherlock's right arm and pushing her against the wall. "She was a lady, and a hundred times the woman you could ever be."

Scowling, Sherlock tried to wrench herself out of John's grasp. He simply held on tighter. "You are wrong, John. She was… a thousand times the woman I could ever be. That any woman could ever be." That seemed to give him pause, and she managed to extract her arm without his notice. "I performed that routine to honour her."

John's look turned to disgust. "Honour? You call behaving like a… like a—"

"Whore?" Sherlock said, deducing where this was going. John's mouth tightened.

"If you prefer," he said. "You think that's honouring her?"

Sherlock studied him, and then shook her head. "Goodbye, John. I will see you tomorrow, but that is all. That will be the last time, I assure you. I can see that… that she was wrong about you."

"What's that?"

She laughed bitterly. "She had the foolish notion that you returned at least some of my idiotic feelings for you. To think that you could love me even a fraction of how much I love you is simply laughable. Unthinkable. Isn't it, John?"

Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock turned, and returned to the dressing room. As she walked, she rubbed some of the feeling back into her arm.

* * *

"I could have lived my whole life without witnessing that," Mycroft said, still rubbing his eyes. John sat down heavily, and noticed the crumpled scarf by the floor. One of the waiters came around.

"Better get that back to Sunny," he said, and he picked it up. John noticed that he had the cape and the skirt as well.

"Well, you wanted to come," Greg reminded Mycroft. The latter frowned at him.

"Not the most appropriate phrasing you could have chosen, detective inspector," he said, and Greg rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean," he said.

"Sherlock is doing very well, isn't she?" Mrs. Hudson said. "Molly and I come here regularly, you know. It's nice to get away from house-cleaning and corpses for awhile. And we do enjoy watching the male performers, don't we, Molly?" Molly blushed. "I'm still trying to convince her to get a private dance, but she's a bit reluctant, aren't you, dear?"

"It's… it's not really my thing…"

"Ah well," Mrs. Hudson said, and she waved her hand. "Never mind. You're not into necrophilia, are you?"

While Molly spluttered incoherently, John thought over his conversation with Sherlock. Regret was trying to creep its way in, but he forced it away. Mycroft's eyes were all over him, though; he was sure of it. And if he knew the Holmes family at all, he knew that Mycroft could guess at least some of what had happened. He resolutely wiped any possible guilt off his face, and decided to get another drink.

Soon, it was getting late, and there was the funeral tomorrow to consider. There was no way he was showing up hung-over. Greg, still sober, offered to drive them home. Mycroft said that he would wait for Sherlock. While the women climbed into the backseat of the inspector's car, Mycroft pulled John aside, and he waited for a dressing down.

"Your late wife inspired Sherlock's routine," Mycroft said. John rolled his eyes, and started to walk away. But Mycroft hauled him back, echoing John's actions towards Sherlock. "Sherlock told me so in a phone conversation some three months ago. She and Mary spent far more time together than you spent with my sister. I will accept that you are still hurt, and that you are attempting to come to trust her again. Your wife's death has clearly set this back, which is most disappointing."

"Don't you dare—"

"I believe that Sherlock opened up to Mrs. Watson a great deal."

"Oh, come off it—"

"Do stop interrupting me, Dr. Watson. The rub of the matter is that they spoke, among other topics, about Sherlock's work at the club. You are aware that they watched _Goldfinger_ together?" John nodded shortly. "And yet you appear to be unaware that Mrs. Watson suggested that the title song would make an appropriate addition to a stripper's musical repertoire. This is according to Sherlock; however, I sincerely doubt that my sister would lie about so improbable an occurrence. You may find, were you to ask, that Mrs. Watson advised Sherlock on a dance. I have not seen my sister dance previously, and so I cannot offer judgement on which moves are hers, and which may have been recommended by… Good night, Dr. Watson. DI Lestrade is waiting for you."

Then Mycroft slid into his black car, and John walked back to Greg's car, hand shaking as he tried to buckle in his seatbelt. When he finally had it, he settled down to think about what had happened that night, and all that had been revealed.

* * *

Teasing Mycroft was always fun, and Sherlock had been looking forward to it now that he had seen her performance, particularly as she had removed more than just a cape.

But her conversation with John – her horrible, soul-rending conversation with John – silenced her. Mycroft even attempted to prompt her into insulting him, first by disparaging her, and then baiting her. Nothing worked. It was almost kind of him; but nothing would relieve her of the melancholy now weighing her down. She sighed when they pulled up.

"Your arm is slightly discoloured," Mycroft said. Sherlock stilled. "It was John."

"You know it was. Do not persist in this line of enquiry, Mycroft. Please."

He didn't reply, and she counted that as a minor victory (miracle). Then she slipped out of the car, closed the door, and entered Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was already asleep; she was probably out like a light as soon as she hit the covers. Sherlock was beginning to feel that way herself. A rarity, but justifiable. And it was important to sleep well, so that she would be refreshed for the funeral in less than twelve hours' time.

However, sleep did not come that easily. Sherlock kept thinking over the conversation she had had with Mary only two days before the sick woman succumbed to her illness.

And, judging by John's reaction, it was a conversation which had only elicited false hope, and would haunt Sherlock the rest of her days.

* * *

The day was only partly overcast; there'd even been some sunshine as they processed out of the chapel. Standing by the hole in the ground, waiting for the coffin to be lowered, John looked across at Sherlock.

It was rare to see any kind of emotion on the detective's face. Fake emotion, to gain information from suspects, or to entertain the clientele of The Blue Note Club, was one thing; genuine emotion, however, was another entirely. John had seen her crocodile tears before. Standing opposite, behind a few of Mary's friends, John could see moisture on Sherlock's cheeks, even as she was obviously trying to keep a straight face. But she looked close to breaking, judging by the telltale quiver of her lower lip every few minutes.

It felt wrong, being on opposite sides. Those three years that Sherlock had been gone, and all these months since her return, still didn't diminish the feeling that they should be standing together. If she'd never faked her own suicide – been there all along instead – and if John had still been widowed, Sherlock would have been right there, at the front, being his rock. Instead, she was half-hidden behind people she didn't even know, and it felt like she was worlds away.

"…ashes to ashes, dust to dust…"

John murmured 'Amen' with everyone else at the right time, and watched as the coffin was lowered. The moment it made contact with the dirt, with a dull thud, John looked up at Sherlock. Her face crumpled, and she bowed her head. Then John was being swept up in condolences, and it was like years passed as each person there threw a rose into the grave. John thought that he saw something flash in the light as Sherlock dropped hers onto the coffin. She met his eyes briefly when she straightened up.

But the moment was gone as soon as it came, and she turned away. There was certainly something shiny around her neck, and he remembered the night before. Slowly filling with indignation again, he took off after her, and grabbed her by the same arm. She winced, and tore out of his grasp.

"I told you this was the last time," she said. "I'm respecting your wishes, so leave me be, Dr. Watson."

That pulled him up short, and he took a step back.

"That was Mary's locket," he said, pointing at her neck. Sherlock covered it with her hand, and raised her head.

"And? When was the last time you saw her wearing it?" she asked.

"On our anniversary. She wore it on our wedding day, and every anniversary after that."

Sherlock's eyes widened. Immediately, she undid the clasp and thrust the jewellery into his hand.

"Take it," she said. "I don't want it anymore. I don't want _any_ of it anymore, and I never did. Not like… not like this."

With those mysterious last words, she virtually ran away from him, and hailed a cab. One appeared straight away, of course.

"John!" Mike called. John looked back over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"

He nodded, sighing. When he looked again, the cab was gone, and he trudged back to the graveside.

* * *

The will was fairly simple. Most of Mary's property went to John, with some knick-knacks going to various friends. Nothing out of the ordinary; nothing unexpected.

Until…

"And to Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Watson—"

"Sherlock Holmes?" John said, interrupting the solicitor. "Mary left something to her?"

"Yes," the solicitor said. "A letter," she held it up, and John briefly caught sight of the name 'Sherlock' written in Mary's handwriting, "a heart-shaped locket on a gold chain, her engagement ring, and the DVD of _Goldfinger_. Mrs. Watson left a note saying that she had already given Miss Holmes the two pieces of jewellery. Is this correct?"

"I…" John's mouth was drying up. "I'm not sure about the ring, but… yes, she gave Sherlock the locket."

"Good," the solicitor said. "If you could arrange for Miss Holmes to receive the DVD and letter. According to the will, it is only to be opened on Miss Holmes's wedding day."

John nodded, and the meeting was soon wrapped up. There were documents to be signed, of course; but the necklace weighed heavily in his pocket, and he kept thinking about the ring. He hadn't found it among Mary's things, and he was sure he would have noticed Sherlock wearing it. Wouldn't he?

Staring at the DVD, it began to dawn on him that he'd gotten things incredibly wrong.

* * *

**Didn't mean to throw in a new routine; this didn't go at all the way that I expected, honest! But I had the beginning of 'Goldfinger' stuck in my head. One thing led to another…**

**Sigh.**

**Only one chapter to go of this story! After that, you should go and read donnabella2k7's one-shot fic inspired by this story. Not sure when it will be up, but it'll be sometime soon (I hope).**

**Please review!**


	5. The Supernova

"The Supernova"

Everyone commented on the fact that Sherlock was so much more cheerful at work. The truth – unacknowledged, but easily realised – was that she was putting on a front. Mary's death and John's behaviour hurt her terribly, and she could only concur with Mycroft's insistence that sentiment truly was a defect. It was one of the few times in her life that she found herself on that particular losing side.

Not since the night before the funeral had Sherlock performed 'Goldfinger'. She'd returned to 'Don't Tell Mama', insisting that the former required additional work.

Tonight, a week since the funeral, Sherlock was wishing that she had a third song. Even if she did, she would have had no time to alert the band to a change, and would be forced to perform 'Don't Tell Mama' in front of her parents. They were towards the back, but in the centre, and perfectly in her line of vision. Mycroft was there, looking distinctly uncomfortable, and she couldn't help feeling that it served him right. No doubt he was responsible for their presence; though what he was trying to achieve was a mystery yet to be solved.

But then the worst happened. She'd had a few casual requests to sing 'Goldfinger', but nothing serious. Nothing until someone stepped from the shadows.

"Sing 'Goldfinger' for us," John said, loudly enough for several tables to hear. Sherlock froze where she was, and the band waited for her signal. Then other people took up the call, soon chanting the name of the song, and Sherlock internally panicked. It was an even more salacious song than 'Don't Tell Mama'. And John was there, and asking for it. And… dangling that bloody locket from his fingers. His face was blank as he held her gaze, and for a second everything went fuzzy. Sherlock forced herself to focus, and noticed her family. No. She wasn't going to fail in front of them. If they were going to be ashamed of her chosen part-time job, she wasn't going to double that shame by giving a second-rate performance.

"Well, I _am_ paid to entertain you," she purred. Cheers went up as she nodded to the band. The moment she latched onto the pole, they started to play, and the cheers grew louder. Sherlock felt elated, and forgot everything else that wasn't the song. She had four backup dancers, two male and two female, and they danced together in the background while she made excellent use of the poles. When she ventured into the audience, she remained in fine form, cooing to the members of her unofficial fan club, and strategically avoiding her parents, Mycroft, and John. She played up to Molly and Mrs. Hudson a bit, and left her cape around a random man's shoulders.

Back onstage, Sherlock launched herself to the top of the middle pole, holding on with only her legs as she allowed herself to rest back, unbuttoned the middle part of her bodice, and let it drop to the floor as she sat up again, abs working to make the movement as smooth as possible.

"He loves only gold," she sang, nearly drowned out by the wolf whistles, and she lowered her eyelashes. "Only gold." She pouted, and slid down a few inches. "He loves gold." She grabbed the pole above her head, as high as her hands could reach. "He loves gold." And she swung around as she dropped, sprawling gracefully on the stage with one leg still hooked around the metal. The spotlight didn't fade until the applause had dropped approximately fifty percent in volume, leaving her holding that position for at least two and a half minutes. When the light did go out, she immediately stood up again, now holding onto the middle part of her bodice, and buttoned it back into place as soon as she reached backstage. She was fortunate that the costume was in so many parts, and easily removable. All of their costumes were designed that way.

"Hey, Sunny!" the emcee hissed. Sherlock's head snapped up.

"What is it?" she said.

"They're asking for an encore."

"Tell them if they want an encore, they can pay for it in one of the private rooms. I cannot top that performance. Not the way that I feel."

"Why not?" Miss McCray said, appearing behind Sherlock like the ninja she must have been in a past life.

"Well, my parents are out there," Sherlock sniped. "That was difficult enough. Tell them…" She sighed. "Tell them that I am not prepared for an encore, and that I will make sure that I have an appropriate backup piece for the future. And… thank them, for their confidence in me." She looked away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the emcee nod, and then hurry back onto the stage. Sherlock walked as quickly and sedately as she could, back to the dressing room. She was in a group number later, and needed to make a few changes to her costume. Miss McCray followed her in.

"You're gaining quite a following," she said. "Sure you can't be here every night?"

"There are intriguing cases out there, intriguing criminals to be caught, and there is only one person who can solve those cases and catch those criminals. I am that person, Miss McCray. Wouldn't you rather the streets be a little safer?"

"After an act like that? I'm not so sure."

Sherlock snorted. "Well, being a consulting detective was my calling. This… this work that I do here… I never anticipated it, nor did I anticipate enjoying it as much as I do. But it is not The Work. I am married to The Work."

"So the Blue Note's your mistress?"

"Apparently," she replied, and she smirked. "If ever you require a violinist in the band, do let me know. It would lend some variety to my work here."

"I'll keep that in mind," Miss McCray said, raising an eyebrow.

"Sunny, you've got a request for a private dance," Bella said, sticking her head into the room. "Nearly ready?"

Sherlock touched up her makeup and hair, and then nodded. She received additional congratulations as she passed other people backstage, and then made her way to the 'pickup area', as they called it.

Her buyer was John.

"I'm to take you to room three," Sherlock said. All of the powder in the world could not have hidden the flush that stole over her cheeks. And she thought his request for 'Goldfinger' was humiliating enough. This was the final insult, and it took every ounce of her love for him to stay her hand once they were alone. She would have to enact a different kind of revenge.

"So, Starshine," John said. "Interesting show. The bartender said it's your best yet."

"Apparently, being caught on the hop forces me to outdo myself," Sherlock said, determinedly avoiding eye contact. "Please sit down." She noticed John obeying in the mirror on the back of the door. One steady breath later, she whipped around, stalked over to the chair, and sat astride its occupant. At last, she met his eyes.

"Sherlo—"

"The rules are that you don't touch me without my permission," she said. "And that you enjoy yourself. Have you paid yet?" He shook his head. "Now or later?"

"Uh—"

"Later, then. You agree to the set fee?"

"Y-yes, all right—"

"Good." Then she studied him, attempting to work out what he wanted. But he didn't look at her like any of the other customers. She'd come to learn how to read them well, and John was as indecipherable as a naked Irene Adler. She caved. "What do you like, Dr. Watson?"

"I'd like to talk."

"Oh?" She leaned closer to his ear, eyes half-closing, and caressing his cheek with her breath. "Wouldn't you rather that I talk? Wouldn't you rather hear about all the things that I could do to you? That I could make you think of when you get home, and find yourself remembering tonight? You saw my dance. You saw how I embraced the pole as though it were a lover, _my_ lover. Would you like that, Dr. Watson? Would you like to see that again? This room is equipped with a pole, right behind that curtain. Or," she linked her right foot around John's left leg, "would you prefer that I just sit here and talk until you go insane with want?"

John's eyes flashed. "That is _not_ what I meant, Sherlock, and you know it."

She sat back on his knees, breaking character for a moment. "Is this supposed to be something that only a person with feelings could understand? Because I was under the impression that machines didn't have feelings."

"Sherlock—"

"If you don't tell me what you want, I cannot—"

Her words were cut off when John grabbed her shoulders and pulled her into a kiss. It lasted barely a second before she leapt back towards the door, instincts kicking in.

"I swear to God, I will call for help," she said, voice breaking.

"We need to talk," John said, carefully standing up. He pulled the necklace out of his coat pocket, and held it out to her. She felt sick.

"I gave it to you," she said. "Why are you pressing the issue?"

"Mary left it to you in her will."

"Yes, and you disapproved, so I returned it to its rightful owner. Now will you please either let me get on with my job, or leave me alone?"

"No," John said, and he stepped forward. Sherlock knew that she could take him, even in heels. But he was a soldier once, and still undoubtedly fit; her chances of overcoming him were looking slimmer by the second.

"Don't come any closer."

"All right, all right." He held up his hands in a motion of surrender. "Uh, you got the DVD?"

"Yes. I gave it to Lestrade, because he hasn't seen it."

"The letter?"

"I burned it." John's mouth fell open. "Oh, do keep up, John. We both know – everybody knows – that I will never marry, which renders the letter a moot point."

"You didn't even read it?"

She sighed, and leaned back against the door. "Of course not. It was to be opened on my wedding day. That likelihood went up in smoke some time ago; now her letter has gone the same way."

John shook his head, clearly still shocked. "And… and the ring? Her engagement ring?"

"I got rid of it."

John stared for a moment, and then sagged, grabbing onto the chair at the last moment and then sinking onto it. "You got rid of it."

"Yes."

"I can't… How?"

"It should have been buried with her. I did not have access to her body before it could be entombed, and so I put it around a rose and threw them onto the lid together."

"Sherlock…" He appeared to be having trouble speaking. "That wasn't exactly hers to give away."

"Oh?"

"No. It was… it belonged to my grandmother." Sherlock's blood froze in her veins. "I used it to propose to Mary."

She had trouble breathing, and sank to the floor, still pressed against the door. "I had no idea. I am so sorry, John. It looked new. She… she must have cared for it a great deal."

"Considering its sentimental value, I suppose she would've done." There was nothing that Sherlock could think of to say to that. "Why did you get rid of it? And the necklace? Why did you give it back, when Mary had left them to you?"

"I had my reasons," she murmured.

"What reasons? I think I have a right to know, Sherlock."

She glanced up at him. "A few days before your wife died, she and I had a talk while you were out at the shops. She said that I was to take care of you after she passed. She said that anyone could see how we felt about each other, and she'd explained to everyone else. No one would blame us if you moved back in, and if – she said 'when' – you moved on from her with me. She gave me the ring and the necklace, and told me that they were important, but not how. I deduced the significance of the ring when I observed that her engagement ring was not among her effects, nor on her person. When you told me the significance of the locket, I wanted nothing to do with it. The DVD would simply remind me of the end of… what had remained of our friendship. And the letter was the final straw. I had to destroy it, the way Moriarty destroyed my life when he forced me to choose between seeing three people I knew on the slabs in the morgue, or taking my own life. I had no reason to live if you were dead, John. It has become apparent that I had no reason to come back to life, either. So… so if you will please accept my apologies for throwing away a family heirloom, and keep the bloody necklace, and… and leave me alone, I would be most grateful."

She stood up, legs trembling. But before she could even touch the door handle, John caught her shoulders, and turned her to face him.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said, and he cupped her cheeks. "It's always been you. Before Mary, during our marriage, up `til now, and forevermore. It will always be you, Sherlock Holmes. I love you, and God help me, if I could have married you the day Mike introduced us in the labs, it wouldn't have been too soon. All this time wasted." He shook his head, and Sherlock noticed tears welling up in his eyes. "We can't do everything over again. But please say you'll let me show you how much I love you?"

Before Sherlock could think past the words 'It will always be you', John's mouth was on hers, and she was melting into his arms.

* * *

"I never thought I would live to see this day," Mummy said.

Sherlock adjusted the skirt of her dress. It had been over a year since Mary's funeral, and much had happened. John moved back in to Baker Street after the sale of the house went through. Sherlock was too scared to start a relationship for at least five months; scared of what people might say about them, scared about getting hurt again, even scared about how this would affect her work at the club.

"I'm married, and my husband doesn't give a damn," Miss McCray said when Sherlock spoke to her. "He sure as hell doesn't hate the extra money, and he's appreciated the skills which led to me managing a joint like this. Appreciated them ever since the night we married, more than twenty years ago. At least three of your fellow performers are married as well, and more than half are in steady relationships. It's fully understood that nothing goes any further than flirty touches and dirty words. I'll have you know that this is a respectable club."

Still, Sherlock had imposed a few new rules for her private customers, and her dances never reached truly raunchy heights. Yet it seemed that she was even more popular for having an air of mystery. She'd certainly never revealed her midsection and back again; not like the night she made up with John, and finally kissed him.

"Stop fidgeting," Molly said, and she rolled her eyes when Sherlock poked her tongue out at her. "You look perfect, all right? I wonder how many people will see the irony in you wearing white…"

"I am not being ironic," Sherlock said. "I am perfectly entitled to wear this colour." Molly gaped at her. "Celibacy is not indicative of a person's ability to arouse and seduce, Molly."

"Sherlock!" Mummy said, shocked. "I would appreciate not being reminded of that… disturbing spectacle, thank you."

"John will appreciate it tonight."

"Right," Molly said, and she began to push Mummy out of the room. "Why don't you go and sit down, and get the tissues ready, all right?"

As soon as they were alone again, Sherlock mouthed 'Thank you'. Molly smiled and nodded.

* * *

John's breath caught when he saw Sherlock walking down the aisle towards him, face partially hidden by a thin veil, moving quite timidly for someone who worked part-time as a dancer in a nightclub. When she was by his side before the priest, John's lungs kicked back into action, and he beamed. Sherlock's smile was small, but no less beautiful, and even more so when he finally lifted the veil to kiss her, sealing the marriage and inciting applause and cheers from the congregation.

Dancing at the reception, John surrendered Sherlock to Mycroft, and went to dance with Mrs. Hudson. He noticed Mycroft hand something to Sherlock at the end of the dance. He didn't have a chance to ask her about it until they were in their hotel room. They were to spend the night there, and then set out for the airport the next day for their honeymoon. Sherlock's hands were as unsteady as John's were calm, and he helped her out of the dress. It had been a long day, but he was invigorated, and Sherlock didn't sleep much anyway.

"What was the thing Mycroft gave you?" he asked. Sherlock pulled it out of the front of her gown, once it was loose enough to move.

"I was duped," she said.

"Oh?"

"Mary knew me too well, apparently."

John paused in removing his shirt. "Oh?" he repeated.

"The letter and ring left to me were decoys. She gave the real ring and letter to Mycroft. She must have known what I would do." Sherlock opened the envelope. Sure enough, John's grandmother's ring was inside, along with a letter.

"What does it say?" John asked, looking over the ring. Sherlock had clearly never suspected a thing; now her comment about it looking new made sense. He'd never forget that conversation. But he'd never thought to ask her to describe the jewellery. Why would he?

"It says: 'Dear Mrs. Sherlock Watson, I know that you're the only person in the world who could make John even half as happy as his sacrifice has made me. I pray that you will get everything you want out of life, and so much more. Your combined services to the country mean that you have earned the right to a happily ever after. Please live the life you deserve, Sherlock. With you as his wife, I know that John will. And if you haven't married John by the time you are reading this letter, then you're an even greater idiot than your brother said you could be when it comes to love. Your friend, Mary.'"

Sherlock noticed black lines from the mascara running down her cheeks. She swallowed, and handed the letter to John as she went to the bathroom to clean up before bedtime.

"It really is over," John said, and Sherlock nearly poked herself in the eye with her makeup remover.

"What is?" she asked. What had Mary done with that stupid letter? Sherlock should have thrown it back in Mycroft's face, or read it to herself and not out to John.

"That chapter of my life. I mean, it was over a long time ago. But this letter is the closing point. It's the line between being a widower, and being a married man. Married to the woman I should have chosen right from the start."

Still tearful, Sherlock stuck her head out of the bathroom, and smiled at her husband. "I won't be long. I just want to take a shower. Wash it all away, if we want to continue these ridiculous metaphors for life and… everything else."

"You do that," John said, smirking with obvious amusement, and he began to tug the sheets down.

As the last of the water trickled down the shower drain, and Sherlock dried herself vigorously, she felt as though everything really was falling into place.

THE END

* * *

**Oh gods. I don't know how to end this without dipping into NC-17 territory. You know, any more than this story already has. Nothing was supposed to get this blatant! Sigh. At least there's the happy wedding day and whatnot.**

**Please review! And I hope you've enjoyed the story as much as I've enjoyed writing it for you.**


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